[dropcap]I [/dropcap]visited Santa Claus at Weaver’s department store as a child. When he asked me what I’d like, I told him matter-of-factly, “Biscuits.” He gave me a funny look and asked if I wanted anything else. I shrugged. “Well, maybe some syrup.”

That Christmas, I got a jar of sorghum syrup.

My mother believed biscuits to be medicinal. Not Pilsbury biscuits, but homemade on the countertop. Buttermilk, angel, sourdough, and drop biscuits; served with soft butter and sorghum syrup.

When I fell out of our mulberry tree and fractured my arm, mother made cathead biscuits. She made mulberry jam to go with them, just to be funny. When our baseball team won regionals, Daddy bought a box of fried chicken. I sat on his tailgate and did what I always did; I ate the biscuits first.

And even at Daddy’s funeral, there were more biscuits than I could shake a stick at. One individual even brought a paper sack full of buttermilk biscuits and honey – and wrote my name on the bag.

I never found out who did that.

When I graduated, Mother made drop biscuits. When a girl broke my heart, I drove two hours just to eat biscuits at a truck-stop. At our first apartment, a nearby diner served sourdough biscuits so fluffy they were illegal in six states. I could eat nine. This week alone, I’ve eaten biscuits on Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. In fact, I’m eating one right now.

I don’t know what it is about biscuits.

And I don’t care.

Illustration by Kyle Fewell